Exhale
by irukandji
Summary: [Content Warning: Eating Disordered Behaviors] How dare they confiscate his sovereignty in the name of "love and health?" The wretched truth was that they loved him and had always cared for him. Their love was so terribly sincere that they were willing to bear the responsibility of causing him anguish and willing to suffer the enmity he directed towards them.


Content Warning: Eating Disordered Behaviors

[USA] National Eating Disorders Association: 1-800-931-2237  
>[Canada] NEDIC Helpline: 1-866-663-4220<br>[UK] Eating Disorder Association Youth Helpline: 011-44-8456-347650  
>[Ireland] Local Helpline: 1890 200 444<br>[Australia] Eating Disorders Victoria Help Line: 1300 550 236  
>More resources available on my profile.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Exhale<em>

The fury that surged through his veins could be conveyed only by streams of rabid curses; they were senseless and irrational phrases fueled by barbaric wrath and often composed of nothing more than vehement spits of "_fuck."_ His rage seethed inside his heated mind, and he feared with each exhale that profanities would erupt from his lungs. Imprisoned in a kitchen chair like a babe in a highchair, he was incapable of releasing his hysteria or coping with his torment.

Oh, he _despised _them for forcing him to despise himself more than he already did! Were they afflicted by a blindness that prevented them from seeing the anguish they caused him? Could they not feel the heat that emanated from his body as ire caused his blood to boil? Was the ice in his gaze undetectable? Did his agonized tears seep into the flesh of his cheeks too quickly to be seen? Were his strained breaths and trembling body unapparent? Did his heart not shatter loud enough or his hatred not consume him intensely enough? By what arrogance and sadism did they believe the pain they caused him was _justified?_

How dare they confiscate his sovereignty in the name of "love and health?" His body was his own to control; thus, his destruction was also his own to control. His fingers twitched to rip their tongues from their mouths with each "I'm-hurting-you-because-I-love-you" speech, and they're fake, indulgent expressions of concern and sympathy were utterly infuriating. It was intangible that they genuinely loved him. If he did not love himself, how could anyone else? They're aid must simply be driven by the fear of damnation. It was absurd that they loved him. It was hero syndrome. _It was fucking bullshit_.

They weighed him and grimaced, and they made pitiful attempts at ridiculous conversations as they monitored each bite that slithered down his throat. Then they jailed him in the hideous kitchen as he watched the clock tick away his ability to purge. What cruelty had possessed them to mock his corpulent form by forcing down the very substance that made his so despicable? Did it make them snicker? Did it bring them amusement?

He wanted to pitch the most revolting tantrum. He wanted to shriek like a heinous animal and shatter every bowl and plate the cabinets contained. He burned to snatch all the food from the kitchen and set it aflame or squish it to pulp between his greasy fingers. He craved to smear it across the walls and floors in the artistry of the most obscene images and phrases. He ached to clutch the deadliest knives and slash open his stomach to rip out the food that poisoned him. He wanted to deafen himself and blind himself. He wanted to spite them for the suffering they caused!

_Fuck their "love."_ Allow his putrid vomit to dribble down his chin and his wrists; allow him to rejoice as he withers to death. Permit him to destroy himself; permit him to die. They needed to acknowledge that they were incapable of helping him; he neither wanted nor needed their fucking help. They only intensified his hate and may life more intolerable. Could they not see the injustice in their actions? They had no right to interfere. It was not fair!

He loathed them, _but he did love them_. The painful dichotomy taunted him, for though his hatred was ardent and vulgar, his love was an inescapable product of birth. The wretched truth was that they loved him and had always cared for him. Their love was so terribly sincere that they were willing to bear the responsibility of causing him anguish and willing to suffer the enmity he directed towards them. The warm embraces, empathetic ears, and soft reassurance that comforted him were undeniably products of love. They were committed to the life of one who claimed not to care; they loved him unconditionally when he did not deserve it.

It was exasperating, and it was agonizing. He longed to be hated and detested with such passion that they reveled in his destruction. He did not wish to bear the responsibility of their care. He wished to die in peace without the burden of understanding he would be mourned for. Yet he was helpless to their love, and immobilized in their grasps and their selflessness. He was far too fearful to reciprocate, _far too fearful of their love_ –

"Exhale, Emil. We'll overcome this together."

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Originally, I deleted this work after posting it. It felt too personal, like I was ripping out part of my heart, and it physically hurt, but it seems incredibly useless to leave it sitting in a document on my computer so I'm re-posting.<p> 


End file.
